The Quest for a Smile
by blahrandomblah
Summary: Set in the Hunger Games universe, The Quest for a Smile follows Silas Rove through his journey as District 8's male tribute in the 13th Hunger Games. Silas has one of those personalities people find completely irresistible; however, he has no idea how people perceive him. While battling for his life, he also battles for the chance to be with his one, true love: his mentor, Nick.
1. The Reaping

"Silas Rove," reads Demetrius from the steps of the Justice Building. My heart sinks into my stomach. For an instant, the entire world is frozen. _Silas Rove_, I think. I didn't know anyone else had that name here in District 8. It's seems strange that there are two of us, but that has to be the case; my name could not have been pulled for the Hunger Games. I have never taken tesserae. My name is only in that globe seven times. There must be a mistake.

As the realization of my fate sets in, time starts to move at its normal pace again. My moment of hesitation is rewarded by a peacekeeper grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the stage. My first inclination is to break free of his hold; however, we all know how that would end. Last year, a tribute from District 7 fought back against a couple of peacekeepers. They shot his father right in the town square.

I manage to get my feet moving, and am no longer being dragged to the stage. It's more like an escort now. As we walk toward the stage, I see a mixture of relief and pity flood the faces of the other eligible boys. Some of them are classmates, and some of them are from the far reaches of the district. I dare not look behind me toward my parents. I know what their reaction must be. My mother is a teacher, and my father works in a factory that makes peacekeeper uniforms. He also works a four-hour shift at another factory. They work so hard in order to protect my brothers and me from the tesserae. My brothers.

Griffith and Rowan are safe. They aren't old enough to have their names in the globe yet. My brothers are 6-year old twins, and the most innocent young boys in all of Panem. Both want to be teachers like Mom. They love helping people do things. Both follow me around anytime I'm home. They…they are going to be crushed. They may be safe from the harm of the games, but will still have to sit there night after night watching the horrors unfold on screen. I need to be strong. They need to think I can win. I need to think I can win.

To be honest, it's not like I'm an invalid. There isn't much to do in District 8 except go to school. Once we turn 16, we can pick up a four-hour shift at a factory. Even with school and my factory job, I have plenty of down-time in the day. I like to go for a run every night, which keeps me in pretty good shape. I lift heavy replacement parts at the factory when a machine breaks down. I'm not ripped like those tributes from District 1, District 2, or even District 4, but I'm probably in better shape than a lot of the tributes.

I finally reach the stage. Demetrius, District 8's escort, shakes my hand. I also shake hands with Serra Clinn, the female tribute. She can't be more than 14. I turn to face the crowd. My district. All I can see is despair. No one smiles. All eyes are on either Serra or me. Demetrius addresses the crowd, "Ladies and gentlemen, Silas Rove and Serra Clinn: District 8's tributes for the 13th Hunger Games." He turns toward us and adds, "may the odds be ever in your favor."

At this last remark, the crowd moves. All the citizens of District 8 raise their right hands, place them on their left shoulders, and bow their heads to us. We consider this a gesture of luck. District 8 has only had one victor in 12 games: Nick Polis. He won the 4th Hunger Games when he was only 14. Early in the games, he was stabbed in the left shoulder by a District 1 tribute wielding a vicious knife. He managed to last through the grueling 30-day games, but walked out grasping his shoulder.

I smile as best I can, and return the gesture to the crowd. I turn away and enter the Justice Building with Serra and Demetrius. Once inside, I am led to a secluded room. The room is vacant apart from a few wooden chairs. Everyone calls this room the deportation room. I dare not sit down, because I won't have the strength to stand up again. Instead, I wear a track into a five-foot section of the floor.

I hear the door open. "Silas." I've heard my father say my name every day of my life, but I have never heard it said in such a remorseful manner. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from this," he continues. I start to shake. Doesn't he know that I can't handle this right now? If I break my composure, I won't get it back.

"Dad, there's nothing else you could have done," I reassure him. As I turn to face him, I see that my mother and the twins are here as well.

My mother is overcome by emotions and can't speak. I walk to her and embrace her, possibly for the last time. Everything she is feeling can be felt in the vice-like hug. Love. Fear. Sorrow. Pity. Rage. I recognize them because I feel them, too.

The twins won't stop crying. I break my resolve from earlier, and kneel down on one knee beside them. I wrap my arms around them both, and rest my head on both of theirs. "I love you," I tell them.

"I love you, too," I manage to hear them both reply through the sniffling.

A peacekeeper comes in to the room and tells me that our time is up. Thankfully, I managed to make it through this without breaking down. As I start walking out of the room, I hear Griffith's voice.

"You have to come back!"

"Or we'll miss you forever," adds Rowan. They both start crying again.

This is the straw that destroys me. A single tear streams out of my right eye down my cheek. I have always despised the games, but the harshness only now sinks in. The Capitol will not take me away from my brothers. I refuse to let them know the pain of loss. Conviction and determination flood my voice as I promise them, "I will."


	2. The Memory

Serra and I are steered toward the train. The sleek metallic exterior gives off the impression of immense speed before the train even moves. As we step into the train, I get my first good look at Serra. I only stand 5'10", but the top of her head barely reaches above my elbow. She has the same ash brown hair that I have, but hers flows down to the middle of her back. I could easily pick her up with one arm. Everything about her reminds me of the word "tiny".

She starts toward the exit of the cart to find her room. The yellow dress she is wearing gets caught on the handrail near the door. I walk over and free it for her. I give her a slight smile; she blushes and runs out of the cart. I can't imagine how she's handling all of this. I'm not doing well with it, and I'm nearly an adult.

The train is remarkably lavish. I have never seen so much gold in one place before. Plump, leather couches line the sides of this first cart. There's a mahogany bar in the corner with a selection of liquors on it. I don't think anyone has poured a drink from the bottles; they are still full. Few people drink liquor back in District 8 because it is dangerous to be drunk around the factory machines. However, I can't imagine making it through this day without a distraction. I walk up to the bar and start to pour myself a generous amount of amber liquid from one of the bottles.

"What are you doing?" asks a voice from behind me. I know this voice all too well. I place the glass back on the bar.

"Nikola," I answer as I turn to face the tall, muscular victor from District 8. His blue eyes are just visible under his blond bangs. They're locked right on me.

"You know I can't stand it when people call me that," he retorts with a scowl.

"Then, you shouldn't have told me your real name, Nick," I answer. I smile at him and his scowl vanishes. I'm unsure if taunting my mentor is wise, but I add, "I don't seem to recall you minding it that much when it comes from the right person."

Nick shoots a glare my way that clearly expresses the need for me to stop talking. I'm taken aback by his sudden mood swing until I see Demetrius boarding the train.

Some districts are blessed with a helpful, even friendly escort. Unfortunately, we are not so lucky. We're stuck with Demetrius. Even by Capitol standards, Demetrius is strange. His body is larger than most in the Capitol. Most of the Capitol citizens are extremely thin. Demetrius is clearly well-fed, though. His skin is stained a sickly, blood red and covered in black tattoos. A black bar the size of a toothpick is pierced through both of his earlobes. In the days before Panem existed, it is said that people believed in a malevolent spirit that corrupted society. Apparently, Demetrius fits the description.

Aside from his looks, Demetrius is just a despicable escort. He never helps the tributes in any way. Since Nick won the games, he's carried out the typical role of escort on top of his duties as mentor.

Demetrius does not stay around to talk. He exits the cart and heads for the front of the train. I watch Nick as he walks over to the bar and grabs the drink I poured. He looks at it for a few moments before sitting it back down.

"So, you think becoming an alcoholic is the best way to win the games?" he asks me.

"I hardly think having one drink on reaping day will turn me into an alcoholic," I respond.

"Some people only need a sip, as I'm sure you recall. You want to be clear-headed as possible from now until you are killed or crowned the victor," he explains. "Silas, you're lucky. You come from a district with a victor; that means you get a mentor. Think about the tributes from 5, 6, 9, 10, and 12; they've never had a winner. They're alone. If you want my help, you will stay away from this stuff."

He is right. I never thought about it from this perspective. In the cruel, unlucky system of the Hunger Games, I have been blessed with a piece of luck. I get a mentor. I get a mentor that survived 30 days with a knife wound in his shoulder. I get a mentor who is the youngest victor yet. I get Nick.

I trust Nick; I met him a few years ago. I was only 14 at the time, and he was 20. I had just left school for the day and was heading to pick up Griffith and Rowan from the old lady who watched them at the time. As I was walking, a few older boys from school pushed me down and started beating me. They thought I had stolen food from one of them, but it wasn't me. I was close to losing consciousness when Nick appeared. As a victor, people tend to fear him. The boys scattered as soon as they saw him.

Nick leaned over me to assess the damage. That was the first time I saw his dark, blue eyes. Looking into his eyes is like staring into the vastness of the ocean; the calming effect was instantaneous. He helped me up and took me to a local healer. The healer patched me up and ordered me to bed rest for a few days. He paid the healer and walked me home.

A few months ago, I ran into Nick again. I was the rescuer this time around. I saw Nick passed out in his front yard. The stench of alcohol was hard to miss. I managed to half carry, half drag him into his house. By the time I got him settled on the couch, he woke up.

"Silas," he said. "You should have left me there. I deserve it."

"You don't deserve that. And, it doesn't matter anyway; I owed you one, Nick," I told him, smiling.

He pushed himself up a little and stared into my eyes. "Your green eyes are beautiful, but do you know what makes them special?" I was too shocked to answer, but he didn't wait for me to respond. "It's the flecks gold in them."

No one had ever talked to me like that before, especially another guy. I didn't know what to say. Before I could figure something out, Nick surprised me again. He grabbed the back of my head, and pulled me into a world shattering kiss. His lips were soft, but powerful. I returned his pressure and melted into him. I hadn't realized my life was incomplete until that moment.

I left quickly that night, but nothing has been the same since. I've seen Nick almost every day since then. Nick is sober, now. I'm sure he isn't aware of it yet, but I trust him completely. He could tell me the best policy for the games is to jump off of a cliff, and I would listen. So, now, when he makes me promise to stay away from the liquor that once plagued his life, I respond easily, saying, "Ok. Nikola, I promise I won't touch the stuff."


	3. The Recap

After my promise to Nick, I exit the first cart and find my room. It's located three carts down from the first but, as I open the door, I realize it is just as lavish. On one side of my room is a vast combination of drawers to keep one's possessions in. Those of us in District 8 have no such burden. Everything I have on me can be kept in one drawer. There is also a large television on this side of the room as well. I'm really unsure if television is the right word, as it is as tall as me and many times wider.

The other side of the room contains a large bed in which my parents, the twins, and I could easily fit with room to spare. The sheets are a crimson red that remind me too much of blood. This side of the room also contains a personal bathroom and shower. Only a few houses back home are blessed with a shower. I've never taken one; our family has always relied on a tub for bathing.

I close the cart door behind me and decide to try out the shower. I walk into the private restroom and notice a full size mirror on the wall opposite the marble sink. I try to avoid mirrors at home. I hate to see my own reflection. Here, in this dreamlike place, I can't help but see myself. My ash-brown hair stops just above my eyes, partially covering the tops of my ears. It's messy and free-falling; it makes me look poor, I think. I take a moment to stare at my own eyes. I see the specks that Nick told me about, but I would liken them much more to brown than gold. Again, all I see are the signs of poverty in my eyes; shallow and hardened by a life of servitude to the Capitol.

As I strip off my shirt, I notice cuts on my arms and chest; even here, I can't escape the effects of the tough, factory work. The heavy lifting has left its mark in other ways. I notice that my arms have definition to them. They're not large like Nick's, but you can definitely see the outline of muscles. My stomach is void of muscles, but flat. When I remove the rest of my clothes, I find well-defined muscles in my thighs, quadriceps, and calves. I guess all of the running I've done has paid off for something.

I stare at the controls in the shower like they are a foreign language. The first button I push sends out scalding water straight into my chest. I slam the button down again; it stops. The next button is a much better temperature: hot, but bearable. There are a few bottles in the shower that I assume are soaps. As I remove the lid off of a green-colored bottle, I smell something familiar. It's the smell of something outdoors. The route that I run takes me through a small meadow. That's what this soap smells like.

I lather myself more than I would at home. If I want to win the games for the twins, I need to get sponsors. They won't accept my plebeian look. As the water carries the soap off of my body, I can see all of the impurities it takes with it. It's quite disgusting, actually, but effective. As I step out of the shower, I see myself in the mirror once again. I could definitely pass as clean, well-fed member of District 8's upper class. However, looking rich among the poor is completely different than any comparison with the people of the Capitol.

I find a towel under the sink to dry myself off. The fabric is extremely soft. I imagine that a cloud would feel similar if it were solid. I think I like this dry, clean feeling. Regardless, the shower has helped calm me for the time being. I throw the towel over my shoulder and walk out of the restroom to find some clothes for the night.

_Thud!_ "Shit!" I exclaim as I slam into Nick. I start rubbing my head in the place where Nick's chin connected with it.

"Oh! I'm sorry," Nick says, smoothing out the bump on his chin. I notice his eyes glance down my naked body as he nervously adds, "I…I…I should have waited until you were out of the shower."

Even though Nick and I have grown closer over these past few months, we have never slept together or seen each other naked. In District 8, homosexuality is a punishable offense. Homosexuality cannot directly produce children, so it is seen as selfish and pointless by the authorities. We need more workers for the factories, so we only support families that contribute to that. It's stupid, I know. Even in the Victor's Village, we dare not risk it. We sneak the occasional kiss, but mostly find comfort in each other's company and conversation.

"It's ok, Nick. I should have locked the door," I respond. As I wrap the towel around my waist, I ask, "Was there something you needed?"

"Um. Yeah. Yes," he continues to struggle with his speech. "It's time to watch the recaps of the reapings. Required watching, you know."

"We're watching them in here?" I ask.

"No. We need to watch them with Serra and Demetrius back in the main cart," he informs me.

"I think I should go ahead and change first, though," I joke. I walk over to the drawers and find that they are full of clothes. I guess the harm has already been done, so I drop the towel and grab a pair of underwear.

As I'm pulling them on, I hear Nick say, "I don't know; I like what you're wearing right now."

The blush that consumes my face burns with embarrassment, but I can't help smiling. I manage to find some black shorts and a plain, light-blue t-shirt. I put them on and start for the door. Nick grabs my arm and turns me to face him. He rests his forehead against the top of my head and whispers, "I still prefer the other look." He kisses my forehead and walks out the door. Once again, my face burns but, this time, I feel as though my stomach is full of butterflies. I follow him out to the main cart.

We arrive back in the first cart to find Serra and Demetrius seated next to each other on the bar-side of the cart. Serra's bravery continues to surprise me. Demetrius is one of the scariest looking people I have ever met, and she sits beside him like they have been life-long best friends. I make a mental note to not underestimate her in the arena. Nick and I take our places on the two couches that line the opposite side of the cart.

On the forward wall of the cart, next to the bar, is a large television. The familiar face of Aphrodite Meriwether appears on the television. This year, her short, green fauxhawk is tipped in a deep black. She wears a crisp, white suit that comes together just under her bosom, providing an additional lift to the work she's clearly had done to her chest. Her face is tan, but not unnaturally colored. She wears black lipstick and eyeliner. The overall look is impressive.

When she speaks, her voice is steady and smooth, "Ladies and gentlemen, District members of all ages, tonight we celebrate the reaping of the incredibly brave tributes for the 13th Annual Hunger Games!" She pauses to allow for applause, which the live Capitol audience provides immediately. "This year's selection of victors is particularly interesting due to the selection of 13 tributes that are 17 years of age or older. What new dynamic can we suspect from a pool of so many near-adults? Only time will tell I'm afraid." She lets out a chuckle that rocks me to my core.

"Now, let's start off with the tributes from District 1," she states excitedly. The television shifts to the town center in District 1. It seems so much cleaner and wealthier than District 8. The first name drawn was a boy, or better yet, an 18-year old man named Titan. His muscles make Nick look like a little school boy. His companion is Sapphire, also 18. Like Aphrodite, Sapphire sports a fauhawk, although hers is pure black. She looks like a viper, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

District 2's tributes look just as deadly. Atticus, 18, and Amara, 15, are clearly in fantastic shape. They both sport shoulder-length, brown hair and shine with confidence. Buzz and Electra are the District 3 tributes. They are 18 and 17, respectively. Both are in far inferior shape than the District 1 and 2 tributes. To be honest, neither are close to my physique. It's important to keep in mind how smart they are though.

The tributes from District 4 are a bit of a conundrum. The 14-year old boy, Blane, is tall and powerful. Fiona, the 17-year old girl, is short and timid. District 5 and 6's tributes don't seem to have muscle or confidence, but two of the older tributes come from these districts. District 7 is another powerhouse team. Brendan is the 18-year old male who looks like he could break a tree in half with just his hands. His short, blond hair even looks like the midsection of a tree. His 17-year old counterpart is just as terrifyingly strong.

As I watch the reaping from District 8, I notice how well Serra handles the reaping. Where I stand dumfounded, she shrugs her shoulders and glides up to the stage. I wish I could understand her. I pledge to speak with her as soon as we have a chance. I also notice something strange in the coverage. I remember smiling so that my brothers didn't know I was scared, but I'm not sure why they would focus in on that.

The boy from District 9, Josiah, reminds me of someone I know. I can't place it yet, but I know that face. That will make things difficult. He's young, too, maybe 14. Eliza, 17, is almost grainlike in her looks; she's tall and tan with long blonde hair, like a dying cornstalk. Harvard and Corra from District 10 are polar opposites. Harvard is 18, tall, decently built, and confident. Corra, 12, is the youngest and smallest tribute.

By the time Districts 11 and 12 come around, I only catch two of the tributes: Juni and Lowe. I'm not sure which is from 11 and which is from 12. I'll figure it out soon enough though. I'm just starting to think about how many strong tributes there are when Aphrodite Meriwether appears on the screen once again.

"Just look at all of that muscle!" She squeals. "If this doesn't go down in history as one of the best games ever, then I'll die my hair white as snow! Hahaha. We'll be back with you to cover the opening ceremonies once our tributes have reached the Capitol. May the odds be ever in your favor!"

As the TV shuts down, I get up. I really just need to be alone. I approach my cart, but feel a small finger poking me in the back. "Silas, I'm sorry your name got called, today."

I turn around to see Serra standing there with a pitiful look on her face. I kneel down on one knee and grab her shoulders in both of my hands, gently. I tell her, "you have nothing to be sorry for. The odds just weren't in our favor this year. You looked so brave up there today; I'm proud to have such a strong, confident person representing our District. You are far braver than I."

"I'm not strong; I'm just numb. It's easy to not care when you're the only person left in your family," she says with a shrug that breaks my heart. Clearly, I've been inappropriately treating her like a child. She is quite mature for her age. My eyes close tight in sadness, and I drop my face to hide the pity I feel for her.

"You shouldn't show sadness on your face, especially with a smile like yours," she tells me. I lift my head and smile at her. She blushes again, and runs off to her compartment. I stay kneeling for a moment to gain my composure.

What did she mean by that though? A smile like mine? No answer comes to mind, so I get up and walk myself into my cart. This time, I lock the door behind me. No surprises. I crawl into the bed, and lay there. I can't stop picturing the frightening tributes. Titan. Sapphire. Atticus and Amara. Blane. Brendan. I also picture the young ones. How will they defend themselves? Serra. Corra. Josiah. Sleep only comes in spurts as I'm continuously woken by nightmares of the oncoming games.


End file.
